Unmagnificent Lives of Adults
by morningmagpie
Summary: Draco Malfoy, a cafe, a book, and some old memories. Hermione/Draco


Disclaimer: Only the words belong to me.

Author's Note: This story is slightly AU, given the fact that Draco Malfoy has hardly any money and has picked up rather bad Muggle habits and is visiting Muggle cafés. There might be a story behind this (well, there _is _one, I just haven't decided whether or not I want to write it) so please let me know what you think of this one-shot, and perhaps I'll expand it into something more substantial. Title stolen from lyrics by The National.

**Unmagnificent Lives of Adults. **

He stops in front of the café; head down against the wind, arms stiff, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. He's had the coat for years, years of empty dreams and hollow victories; it's worn now, the fabric thin around his elbows and shoulders. He hasn't kept it for sentimental reasons – although he swears that sometimes he can smell her shampoo embedded in the threads – he just can't afford another. He pulls at the fraying cloth around his wrist, the snow falling onto his thin frame, its weight softly cloaking him. The sleet soaks through his jacket.

His shoes, the ones he's had since he was seventeen that used to be soft and new and expensive-looking, but are now old and chipping, leather peeling back in patches, are as wet as the fabric between his shoulder blades. He kicks his heel into the ground, angrily scuffing his feet along the sidewalk.

His hair clings to his forehead, wet, heavy patches of discomfort that remind him of her. He hasn't thought of her for a while; a few months perhaps, several weeks in which he had not dreamt of her or saw her in everyday objects. That's nothing compared to the blissful twenty-one years he'd had before she'd stepped into the coffee shop, commanding his attention. He can still see the cup of coffee in her slender fingers, eyes as black as the drink, hair the color of autumn.

He had seen her before; of course he had, right in the hallways or during classes. He'd ridiculed her, hated her. But the war had ended, and with that, many other things. He stopped caring about basic rules regarding blood, not because he really cared, but because he hadn't cared about much after the war. And then he saw her in the café, and he was ready to insult, his body coiled for it, and he couldn't seem to find the words. She just sat there, regarding him with those damn eyes, and then turned away from him.

He needs something so he can move on. That's why he comes to the café every year, with his fraying coat and tattered shoes; now, even at the ripe age of twenty-nine, still unmarried, still living in his shit flat, still without a job, still unfocused. He hasn't even been with anyone since he met her here. He's been useless, living off of nicotine and weed and coffee and the occasional apple, scribbling on napkins, practicing spells so they don't fall away, mind otherwise blank.

The café looks the same as it always does. Wilting chairs and sofas, hard tables with light rings on the dark wood, the discolorations solemn, blemished leftovers of their previous owners. There are about a dozen lamps that leak out a soft, yellow glow, the light that attracted him to the café in the first place. Cramped bookshelves with ragging rows of novels line the walls and several tilting side tables are scattered among the chairs.

He orders some tea and sits down.

The bookshelves remind him of her the most. It was for two reasons: the fact that she loved books more than she loved people (they had a way of never letting her down) and simply because he can still see her there as he had the first time, hair falling into her face as she bent over to look at the titles, those hands running over the spines. Slim, long hands that looked like they belonged on a pianist's in the middle of a bar in the 40s. He'd spent about five days afterward imagining what hands like that could do to him. He went over the conversations they would have before she ran her fingers along his face, tracing the outlines, plotting a map with her fingertips. He can still feel it sometimes, an apparition of fingerprints on his cheekbones.

A man comes and places his tea in front of him. He looks away from the shelves.

For years, he hasn't been able to determine if he hates her or not. He knows that she hates him, and it doesn't come as a surprise. He wonders, amused and saddened by his own stupidity, why he offered friendship, when it was blatantly clear that neither of them wanted anything to do with the other.

But he thinks, really, that he doesn't. He's figured out that he couldn't hate _her_. He only despises the memory of himself when he was with her, vulnerable, out of place, rubbed raw by her vicious belief in him. She'd been it, that one person that people claim to look for most of their lives. The one who makes sense of the world and the frailty of human beings.

He sets the tea down on the table and walks over to the bookshelf. He searches for a moment, mimicking her past movements, hands caressing the spines, tips of fingers making love to the names. And there it is, her book, thin spine, spindly writing.

He turns it over, sees her picture in the bottom left-hand corner, a small smile on her lips. The lips that used to whisper impossibilities near his ear in the middle of the night, weaving stories that both terrified and enthralled him. The lips that used to fall onto his. He bites back a frown, and with a deft hand, peels off the price tag. He sneaks an easy glance toward the counter, and then pockets the book.

He walks out into the snow, hands wrapped tightly around the pages and the cover, holding what feels to be alive, a breathing example of who she was.

He goes home and puts it on the one shelf in his living room, a quiet source of light in the darkness of his flat. He settles onto his couch for a moment, watching it, hands running along his scalp.

He knows he won't read it. It will sit there until he can't move out of his bed. It is his own explanation, his small apology to her. If she ever came back, if she ever saw him again….

He knows she would understand.


End file.
